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"Good night."
Nichols slipped his pipe between his teeth but didn't pack or light the bowl. He set his attache case off to the side of his desk, and, still wearing his overcoat, he sat down and examined Yazid's file.
Farquar had not exaggerated. It was slim pickings. Although the last six years were heavily reported, Yazid's life before his rapid rise from obscurity took up little more than a paragraph. His debut in the news media began with his arrest by Egyptian police during a sit-in demonstration for Cairo's starving masses inside the lobby of a luxury tourist hotel. He had distinguished himself by preaching in the worst slum areas of the country.
Akhmad Yazid stated he was born in squalid poverty in a mud hut among the decaying mausoleums of the City of the Dead that spilled into the garbage dumps of Cairo. His family lived on the thin margin between survival and death until his two sisters and father died from disease brought on by hunger and filthy living conditions.
He had no formal schooling except what was given during his adolescent years by Islamic holy men, none of whom were found to back up this assertion. Yazid claimed Muhammad the Prophet spoke through him, uttering divine revelations to the faiffiffil and urging them to return Egypt to a utopian Islamic state.
Yazid possessed a resonant speaking voice. He had the skilled mannerisms and delivery to enrapture a crowd of listenets, slowly building them to a fever pitch at the finish. He insisted Western philosophy was incapable of resolving Egypt's social/economic problems.
He preached that all Egyptians are members of a lost generation who must find themselves through his moral vision.
Though he vehemently claimed otherwise, evidence indicated he was not above using terrorism to achieve his goals. Five separate incidents, including the murder of a high-ranking Air Force general, a truck explosion outside the Soviet Embassy, and the execution-style killing of four university teachers who spoke out in favor of Western ways, were traced to Yazid's doorstep. Nothing was proven but through sketchy information gained from Muslim infomiants, CIA analysts felt certain Yazid was planning a masterstroke to eliminate president Hasan and sweep into power on a rising wave of public acclaim.
Nichols laid down the file and finally filled and lit his pipe.
A tiny, indefinable thought tugged at him from the far reaches of his mind.
Something about the report struck him as vaguely familiar. He laid aside a glossy photo of Yazid glaring malevolently at the camera.
The answer suddenly struck Nichols. It was simple and it was shocking.
He picked up his telephone and punched the coded number of a direct line, impatiently drumming the desk top with his fingers until a voice answered on the other end.
"This is Brogan."
"Martin, thank heavens you're working late. This is Dale Nichols."
"What can I do for you, Dale?" asked the Director of the CIA. "Did you get the packet on Akhmad Yazid?"
"Yes, thank you," replied Nichols. "I've gone through it and found something you can help me with."
"Sure, what is it?"
"I need two sets of blood types and fingerprints."
"Fingerprints?"
"That's right."
"We use genetic codes and DNA tracing nowadays," Brogan answered indulgently. "any particular reason in mind?"
Nichols paused to collect
his thoughts. "If I tell you, I swear to God you'll think I should be fitted for a straitjacket."
Yaeger pulled off his granny reading glasses, tucked them into the pocket of a denim jacket, shuffled and stacked a pile of computer reports, then settled back in his chair and sipped from a can of diet soda.
"Zilch," he said almost sadly. "A wasted effort up and down the line. A 1,600-year-old trail is too cold to follow without solid data. A computer can't go back in time and tell you exactly how it was."
"Maybe Dr. Gronquist can determine where the Serapes made landfall after he's had a chance to study the artifacts," Lily said optimistically.
Pitt sat two rows below and off to one side from the others in NUMAs small amphitheater. "I talked to him by radio an hour ago. He's found nothing that isn't Mediterranean in origin. "
A three-dimensional projection of the Atlantic Ocean showing land folds and the irregular geology of the sea bottom filled a screen above the stage. Everyone seemed obsessed by it. Their eyes were drawn to the contoured imagery even as they spoke.
Everyone, that is, except Admiral James Sandecker. His eyes suspiciously observed Al Giordino, particularly the large cigar sprouting from one side of the Assistant Project Director's mouth as if it had grown from a seedling.
